A Thousand Words
by sxmmy
Summary: "You're still having them," Steve said. Nightmares. Not a question, not an insinuation— a statement. Neither of them had to specify what was meant by the words. (Captain America: Civil War missing scene.) (No slash.)


**A/n** _Hello again, friends! I had many feels after Civil War, and this is the result. Short and sweet. Hope you enjoy!_

 _To the lovely beautiful angels who're following my supernatural/suits stories and accidentally found yourself here: I've been so very busy as of late, friends, and I do apologize for my lack of updates! I can't promise when, but I hope and have plans to revisit those drafts in the future. Thank you for all your support and love! just want you guys to know I'm alive, haha. ;)_

 _Rated T for mild gore references, slight Civil War spoilers, though nothing major._

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Echoes. Echoes of silences filled with darkness grew heavy… and heavier, bringing memory of the silence that followed after a body stopped writhing. After gasps of suffocation finally ceased. After drowning in thick, red liquid. The few seconds of quiet that followed a blood-curdling scream.

Why would they _always_ _scream_? Because they were afraid, didn't want to meet their end, wanted to somehow reach him as if to persuade him to stop?

Stop. No. _Comply._

No… too many. Too many silences just like this one had he known, had he triggered, and he remembered each one. Individually. Intimately.

This one kept brewing, as if the dark were evolving and entwining with the silence to create something so filled with horror that, even in sleep, drained the very heat from his veins, leaving him cold. No more. No.

 _Stop._

When Bucky opened his eyes, he was already sitting up, muscles rigid from anticipation of some force or blow or pain that might've come, but didn't.

It took him a moment to grasp that he wasn't _there_ anymore. He wasn't waking up to a myriad of lab coats and unfamiliar faces staring down at him with cold, calculating eyes.

The hum of running engines filled his ears, and he remembered the plane. The fight.

A tentative glance at his hands testified that the blood he expected to see them dripping with had been a cruel figment of his imagination. After pressing them into fists once, twice, _three times_ —as if to prove to himself that he was the one in control—James reached to release the belt that stretched across his chest, ridding himself of restraints that weren't there. He _knew_ they weren't there, not really; he still felt the ghost of their pressure against his arms, his chest, his abdomen. The soldier drew a breath. After the safety belt snapped back into its holster, the sensation abated, fading back into memory (to be revisited no doubt at a later date). Clarity descended into his mind at last, though he was too skeptical to allow any feelings of relief or to put his guard down.

"You sure about that?" sounded a familiar voice. "It's been a while since I've flown one of these."

Mild surprise flickered across Bucky's face for a split second, though he stayed silent when he realized he was tightly clenching his jaw. Eventually, recognition brought the name of the pilot with golden-blond hair to his mind. _Steve_.

Steve wasn't looking at him. Instead, his blue eyes were directed toward the seemingly endless expanse of sky outside the front window of the aircraft. His quip had been lightly toned, humorous even, though for some reason Bucky's throat was too dry to form words. His muscles flexed, expression unchanging.

When met with silence, Steve eventually tossed a glance over his shoulder. Whatever levity he was trying to maintain dissipated as his gaze went from Bucky's face to his hands, and he frowned.

James slowly realized he was slightly shaking, though for what reason he couldn't guess.

"Let me take over," he said finally, forcing his limbs to still as if nothing had happened. Steve's frown deepened at the corners. His response was one Bucky didn't expect.

"You're still having them."

Not a question, not an insinuation— a statement. Neither of them had to specify what was meant by the words.

 _Nightmares_ had been James' faithful companions since his introduction to Hydra. They never really stopped, but over the years, he'd gotten to be something of an expert; learned quickly how to control even his mind and body's involuntary responses, regardless of what he saw beneath closed eyes. Even if anyone witnessed it, they would remain clueless that anything had transpired at all—except, apparently, Steve. Was he out of practice?

Bucky's eyes fell from Steve's, landing on the control panel beneath the other's hands, pretending to be preoccupied with the brightness of the flickering lights. When Steve didn't move and the uneasiness in his eyes didn't shift away, he sighed.

"No," came the less than willing reply, as if the topic of discussion were boring him.

"I remember, Buck."

Steve had seen him go through it before, and he remembered. It'd been on a Howling Commandos mission of all things, post their escape from Hydra's headquarters. Bucky could remember, too.

For some reason, he and Steve were split up from the rest, having to spend the night in hiding until it was deemed safe to reunite. Both agreed to take shifts on watch while the other slept; Bucy insisted on first watch, so Steve took the next. Bucky made it to about two hours past his own rotation before an irritated Steve finally woke up on his own, and forced him to get some sleep. Turned out to be a bad call.

James hadn't even slept an hour before he felt Steve's arms on his shoulders, shaking him roughly awake from whatever terrors had gripped him. A pit formed in the base of James' stomach, though instead of cringe at the feeling, he wondered at it. That was the first time Steve caught a glimpse of the psychological toll Hydra had taken on him, how far their claws had slid into his mind. Bucky had done his best to disguise it from the rest of the Commandos, _especially_ Steve, because he viewed it as weakness back then.

Now… dreams were almost something that grounded him. Even if they were nightmares.

Neither of them had slept or spoke after that, even up until they regrouped with the others—Bucky because of obvious reasons, and Steve likely due of worry, despite his forceful (borderline aggressive) insisting that he was completely _fine_.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Steve," James said, mentally taking note of how familiar the name felt to pronounce even while it sounded foreign, his voice assuming a removed quality. "I handle it. I have handled it." He met Steve's eyes with such a dark intensity about his expression that it seemed to take the other man aback somewhat.

"I know," Steve responded finally, breaking the silence that elapsed.

His own sky-blue eyes suddenly looked weighted, made old with a weariness that Bucky knew couldn't be cured even with many years of sleep. It was a look he recognized well, though it was strange, seeing it on Captain America's features. He didn't wear it well.

A moment passed, one where James guessed they were both taking in how much had passed in the time leading up to their chance reunion. What each had gone through in the expanse of so many decades… such as the unspeakable things he'd done that Steve still didn't know the nature of.

And yet, here they were, each other's only link to a past that no one else remembered, the only proof that their previous life had even existed at all.

"Up," James ordered calmly, sliding out of his seat and moving toward the pilot chair Steve occupied, who's haunted look eventually receded (to his quiet relief). It brought back the old flare of their early brotherhood, back when Steve was five feet shorter and Bucky wore the mantle of leader. To his surprise, Steve actually nodded.

"Just for a few hours."

Bucky hesitated for a split second, as if inwardly questioning himself before giving into instinct and murmuring— "Get some sleep."

But Steve didn't sleep, even after James assumed the role of pilot and had taken over the controls. There was no need for him to be awake, but he remained so.

As long as Bucky stayed awake, so did Steve.

Though silence ruled the rest of the flight, that single act rang louder than a thousand words.

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 **A/n** _One-shot (for now). Thank you **so** much for reading! As always, I would much appreciate it if you'd leave behind your thoughts/opinions in a review. 3_


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